Mare Incognitum
by Ariodat
Summary: After the events of Omega Ruby, Maxie clings to the scrambled remains of his self-worth by idealizing his family heritage, while Archie does his best to find out the truth about his own lineage. Due to unforseen circumstances, they stumble right into the shared history of their ancestors, only to realize that history is always written by the winning side. [hardenshipping]


**Full Summary** : After the events of Omega Ruby and the subsequent Delta Episode, Maxie - having to live with the knowledge that his misguided ambitions almost turned turned all of Hoenn to dust - clings to the scrambled remains of his self-worth by idealizing his family heritage, while Archie does his best to find out the truth about his own lineage. Due to unforseen circumstances, they stumble right into the shared history of their ancestors, only to realize that history is always written by the winning side, that old habits and prejudices are hard to get rid of, and that even three hundred years ago, super-ancient Pokémon have always been used to change and rule the world.

 **Contains** : timetravel, alternate versions of canon characters, pirates, dub-con, attempted non-con, major and minor character deaths, OCs fucking in the distance, that one character who is a complete monster, Pokémon abuse, torture, sword fights, Pokémon fights, incest(?)

* * *

This is the halfway secret commission I have been paid to be working on for the last four months. That's been a long time and it has been a frustrating time sometimes, but in the end, I am happy with it. I have fallen in love with the story and the characters and with being the one to bring all of it to life. I am just as happy that I am allowed to share it with you.

This story takes place in the ORAS universe, although you might, as time goes by, find yourself reading about characters from RSE and PokéSpe. This story also contains a lot of OCs, a whole world full of them. Don't be afraid. Not all of them bite.

It should also be known that this story is, first and foremost, a hardenshipping fic. And it will always be one, even though it might not always feel like it, because there are many other things going on at the same time.

This story can also be read on Tumblr as well. Chapter artworks are done by Meltingpenguins, beta-reading is done by the wonderful Vauvenal.

Enjoy. And thank you for your time.

* * *

He was trapped, imprisoned in darkness; the same darkness that had served him well on many occasions, that had saved his life often enough whenever he'd had to seek refuge in flight after a successful foray. To him – as a pirate – the darkness was a good acquaintance, a close friend, and a valued companion.

And most of all it was a damned _traitor_ , for just like it had always hidden him from the observant eyes of his foes and prey alike, this time, it had chosen the side of his enemies. They'd caught him with his pants down. In the most literal sense. They'd boarded his ship in the middle of the night, had surrounded his crew, had … well, they hadn't exactly forced him to surrender, not with so many words at least. He'd still done it, if only to prevent the unnecessary bloodshed that would have been unavoidable otherwise.

And now – now he was trapped in here. In the Pyroar's den, half naked – 'half', because they had at least let him put the pants back on –, with his hands chained behind his back (chains that faintly jangled whenever he moved, iron bonds that cut into his flesh, that didn't budge a single inch, no matter how hard he tried) and the awful certainty that this could be the end for him. With a quiet sigh, he tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. His eyes had gotten used to the darkness – still, there was not much to see. The room was a sparse and empty one, nothing more than a tiny, dark cell. One that he knew. One he'd already sat in, all these years ago, when he'd been young and inexperienced. When he had not known just who he'd been dealing with – who he still was dealing with. When he had not known that this 'offer you couldn't possibly refuse' would ultimately result in this imprisonment.

And maybe, imprisonment was not the worst that could happen to him.

He was no hero. That much was clear. And there was nobody here in front of whom he'd have to pretend otherwise. He valued his life, feared death and was absolutely afraid of what might or might not come afterwards. Of course he knew the teachings about Arceus – the Creator –, but somehow the priests had always forgotten to clarify whether Arceus had only created life and death … or life, death and the afterlife. Frankly, he didn't want to be the one to find an answer to this old, unresolved question. He had a family, one that he loved more than anything else in the world; a crew he had to take care of. And he was scared.

A key was being turned in the lock that held the door to his cell closed. The door itself opened with a creaking sound. The sudden glow of a torch illuminated his prison, so bright that it blinded him for a moment, forcing him to close his eyes and blink a multitude of times until he grew accustomed to the light. And then, when he could finally see again, he saw the man who held the torch in his long, bony fingers. The sole man he had never wanted to see again in his entire life.

Magnus Abernathy, chief magistrate – the only magistrate actually – of Mossdeep. Legislative, judiciary and executive alike. The man was jury, judge and executioner at once. Though, at a first and unobserving glance, one certainly didn't believe this much power. He didn't look it. Not if one didn't already know better.

His gaunt figure was normally hidden underneath many layers of clothing, but today, now, he only wore a simple pair of pants, a waistcoat and a shirt, sleeves rolled up like someone ready to do hard and exhausting work. Or like someone who didn't want to get his clothes dirty. The light of the torch cast shadows on his thin face with the high cheekbones.

In this uneven light, he thought he could see the madness dance in Magnus' crimson eyes.

"Alistair," Magnus said quietly. His name. One word, three syllables. Voice rough with longing and hatred alike. "You shouldn't have run away from me. After all, a promising future was awaiting us."

"Sure. One where you chain me to your desk like your other lapdogs."

A smile crossed Magnus' features as he leaned down a little to look him in the face. "Don't be stupid. You possess no qualities that would be useful at my desk."

 _Yeah, but I guess you're already thinking of other places to chain me up._ Alistair kept quiet in order not to give him any ideas, forcing himself not to look away, not to flinch away in disgust as Magnus regarded him like a hungry Mightyena.

"I heard you died. Drowned. I should have known better. I should have known you wouldn't die on me this easily."

"You should have," he said with a shrug, and then truly flinched, because those long, slender fingers touched him, grabbed his chin more tightly than one would assume when regarding Magnus' build. Blunt nails dug into his flesh as Magnus tilted his head back, forcing him to look the man in the eyes.

"I should have known," he said once more, roughly, voice a dangerous growl. "I've read the legends about your kin. The McNaughtons, descendants of the ocean gods." Magnus' thumb stroked over his cheek, an almost gentle touch. A mockery of one, for Magnus didn't know what tenderness was. "The likes of you don't drown. They _burn_."

Alistair breathed in deeply, eyeing the torch Magnus still held in his other hand. He had to be careful. He knew the man wouldn't hesitate to burn a hole into his body. … after all, he'd done it before. Ages ago. In a situation not so different from this one, a situation where he had been given an offer – one he 'couldn't possibly refuse'. "As much as I'm always into having pleasant conversations with you -"

"We both now there is nothing intelligent going to come out of your mouth. Do yourself a favour and _be silent_." His chin was released out of that iron grip, and Alistair swallowed hard, closing his eyes in relief for a moment, then watched Magnus inserting the torch into a bracket in the wall, watched him turning on his heels in one fluid motion. There was something on his belt, emitting a silverish gleam, something that Alistair could recognize as a dagger. As his own dagger.

The outrage about Magnus having stolen something from him – from _him_ of all people – and now parading around with the stolen goods vanished quickly as Alistair became aware of the fact that Magnus most likely didn't simply want to show him the dagger. Most likely he'd want to use it. On him. Not a reassuring thought at all. Alistair stiffened and felt a cold, unpleasant shiver run down his spine that had nothing to do with the chilly air inside the cell, as Magnus leaned down to him and smiled, as he gifted Alistair with that charming, honest smile that made the world lie to his feet, that made all of them eat out of the palm of his hand.

All of them except for Alistair.

Because he knew better.

Because he knew the madness that was hidden behind that scrutinizing gaze.

"I often thought of you," Magnus whispered. The smile on his lips vanished. Instead, there was a thoughtful look on his face as he regarded Alistair, as he looked his body up and down. "I thought of cutting open each of your scars to make them mine. I thought of scratching them open with my fingernails, of sinking my teeth in your flesh to make _you_ mine, and only mine." The hand was back on his cheek, tender, loving, _enamoured_ , and Alistair had to swallow down the bile that rose in his throat at these words and touches. "I wonder if your wife has ever done something this intimate for you."

"I didn't know you wanted to be my wife that badly."

It earned him a slap, one that threw his head to the side, one that stung badly, that burnt like fire. But that was fine. That was better than this sick and obsessive tenderness. Alistair took a deep breath – and flinched as he felt Magnus slide up closer to him, felt him slide onto his lap, pressed against his naked chest so that he could feel the heat of Magnus' body against his own.

"You shouldn't try to ridicule me," he growled lowly, hot breath ghosting over Alistair's skin, making him shiver uneasily. "I am not a man to jest about."

"Yeah, you're so humourless, I guess you don't even know how to spell it." The words spilled over Alistair's lips before he could prevent it, and he already anticipated another slap, but none came. Instead, Magnus slowly traced the long scar that started over his left eyebrow, that ran across the bridge of his nose and stopped underneath his right eye; instead Magnus – quietly and surprisingly worriedly – asked where he'd gotten it, and Alistair scoffed and rolled his eyes, because he knew that Magnus wasn't really able to feel worry for anyone who wasn't Magnus himself, and kept silent. Because it was none of his business, because he didn't want to talk to him, because he refused to play whatever mad game this was supposed to be – this game where he was obviously expected to pretend that the stay in this dungeon was a nice one, a pleasant one.

Even though Magnus might be pretending that they were friends (old friends, sharing a history together and having a good, long laugh about their adventures), Alistair knew better. Knew that this was about something else, something more important than either or the both of them.

Unfortunately, he was right. Unfortunately, he couldn't do anything, for as he saw the silver gleam of the dagger … it was already too late.

The shock came first, came crashing over him like icy water. It numbed his body, didn't let him feel what exactly had happened. His eyes were wide, locked with Magnus', with his crimson eyes and crimson gaze that never showed emotion, never joy and never kindness, and never – never mercy.

Then, he felt the warm fluid trickle down his face. The smell of copper hit his nose, a drop spilled over his lips and into his mouth, and with the knowledge that this was his very own blood, the pain finally found him; pain, agony that made him groan, that made him clench his teeth.

He screwed his eyes shut, struggling to retain his composure, struggling to show no weakness, not in front of him, and when he slowly opened his eyes again, Magnus' facial expression had brightened. A content smile had found its way onto his lips, one that Alistair answered with baring his teeth in anger.

Which only made Magnus laugh. "Now that I have your complete attention," he drawled, "we can talk about business. Where is it?"

"Where's what?" Alistair gasped out, thoughts still clouded by the blinding pain. His breath came in short, erratic gasps, his lips were slightly opened, eyes fixated onto Magnus' face, appalled by his deed – and by himself, because he had believed himself to be safe, had not taken Magnus seriously, for he knew that the man was still smitten with him even after all these years.

And now that Magnus slightly moved on his lap, thereby – maybe even unconsciously – grinding his hard dick against Alistair's hip, now he knew that nothing had changed about this obsession. Only now Magnus didn't go easy on him anymore.

Maybe, but just maybe, this had something to do with Alistair having accepted this 'offer' all these years ago and then running away with Magnus' belongings. Maybe this had made the man even more ruthless.

"Where," Magnus murmured in his ear, "is the compass, which I had _asked_ you to retrieve for me? The one I had _paid_ you for?"

"Actually," Alistair responded, knowing too well that being a smartass wasn't a good idea, but unable to shut up even once in his life, "you'd only promised to pay me. You never delivered." He shrugged his shoulders, which made the metal chains bite painfully into his wrists. "We both haven't gotten what we wanted, so there wasn't any loss for either of us."

"Aha." This was the only answer he got. A monotone sound, almost a sigh. And then, there were fingers on his neck, travelling over his throat (Alistair stiffened, expecting the worst, expecting these fingers to curl around his throat and choke the life out of him) and caressing his cheek.

And then – before he could react, before he could even expect it – blunt nails dug into the open, bleeding wound on his face. _Whitehot_ burning pain exploded in his head, in his mind, and Alistair screamed, screamed and flinched back, so sudden that he almost threw Magnus off his lap.

He was blind because of the pain, because of the blood dripping into his eyes, and as wet fingers caringly patted his cheek, he felt bile rise in his throat again. His cheeks burned with shame and hatred as he looked up at Magnus' despicable face.

"I hope you know that this was all your fault."

Alistair was silent, pressing his lips together to not scream at him, at this _bastard_ , this sadistic madman, this … "You won't get it," he gasped out. "You'll never find it. It's hidden forever. I've found out what it really is, and I'll never let you have it."

Slowly, Magnus raised one brow, then the other one. "Oh?"

"I've been to Sootopolis a few days ago."

"Ah. Meeting the so-called witch, I assume. This explains a lot. Then do speak, Alistair," he whispered in his ear, and the way that Alistair's name came over his lips, so intimately, so besettingly like nothing else that Alistair had ever witnessed made the small hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up in horror. "Tell me about the scary stories you've heard about me."

"You," Alistair began after hesitating slightly. He licked his dry lips, for the memory made his throat grow tight, made his breath hitch because everything he'd heard had been so horrifying that he'd almost not believed it. "Inside the compass, there is a Pokémon living. One created by Arceus himself. One that could destroy the world. And you – you sick bastard – want to use it to rule over Hoenn."

"And you truly believed her?" There was outrage in his voice, in his face, and a long, long moment Alistair really and actually doubted her words, but then a smile – a small one, an arrogant one – crept on Magnus' lips, and he brushed these very lips against Alistair's own in a mockery of a kiss. "Do you believe me to be this small-minded? Why should I be content to own Hoenn when I could have the _world_?"

Alistair growled and struggled against his bonds – without success – to do something, anything, to stop Magnus in his tracks, to not feel this absolutely helpless, but … it was to no avail.

"You cannot stop me." Magnus regarded him from underneath his lashes and stroke his cheek without caring about his hand turning crimson with blood. "You cannot prevent it. You can only prevent your family be the first to die. You can prevent them sharing the same fate as your Vaporeon."

Alistair's mouth was dry. His heart grew tight, a cold fist of panic clenching around it. Molly. He hadn't thought about her. Not since he'd been here. She had been with him when they'd captured him, had protected him, had bitten and scratched and fought as if it were their last day on earth. "What have you done to her?"

"What have _I_ done?" Those brows rose again and Magnus leaned close again, one hand on Alistair's bare chest. "I have done nothing. Although I guess -" He lowered his voice. "My Houndoom is tearing the last scraps of flesh from her bones right now."

It took a moment until the words sank in, but when they did, they tore him apart, hurt him more than any kind of torture ever could. Alistair felt his heart shatter into pieces, felt all hope leave him forever at the thought of his oldest, closest friend, at the thought of her mangled, beaten body being torn apart by sharp and merciless teeth. He did not cry, for he was too overwhelmed with sadness and the feeling of having lost, of being lost. He slumped forward bonelessly, against Magnus' chest, felt him cradle his head in gentle hands – as if they were lovers, as if they shared all their sorrows and pain, as if it wasn't Magnus who had robbed him of his most valued companion –, and couldn't help but imagine his family being torn into shreds as well.

A whimper tumbled over his lips and he shivered in fear. And then, he told Magnus everything.

"Good," Magnus said quietly. "What a good boy. You have done the right thing." A chaste kiss was pressed to his temple, and Magnus slid off his lap, straightening his clothes. Alistair could see the blood had dried on his hands already, for it didn't leave any stains on the fabric. "You will understand that I cannot let you live."

No. Of course not. He'd figured that much. He knew too much. He was the only one who could stand in Magnus' way, who could prevent his schemes. … he was going to die. Alistair closed his eyes in silence, completely defeated, resigned to his fate.

He heard the door being opened, footsteps approaching, and as he opened his eyes, he could see two of Magnus' guards, his henchmen, open the chains that bound him to the wall – but not those that bound his hands together. They yanked him upright, forced him to stand on wobbly feet.

Magnus stood before him, his eyes hard and cold. "As much as it pains me to say, you will be sentenced to death to punish you for the crimes you have committed. But … before they lead you to the gallows, there is one more thing to do." The dagger was back in his hand, and – with a quick gesture – he ordered his henchmen to hold Alistair's head still, to hold it in an iron grip.

And then, Magnus slashed his face once more, relishing in his pained scream as he kept his promise to cut open the old scar on Alistair's forehead.

"This is a reminder for you not to get in my way. One you will feel for the short rest of your sorry life. It is also a promise – an oath if you'd like. It says that none of my kin will put their trust in yours ever again."

Another quick gesture, and Alistair – blinded by the blood in his eyes and the light of the afternoon sun – was taken away.

* * *

As they reached the marketplace, Alistair had to endure the sight of many, too many people. Of those he'd known for most of his life, of those who'd come to Mossdeep to trade goods or find a new home. He saw the children of Mossdeep with the scared and amazed look in their eyes, and he hoped his own children would never have to bear the sight of an execution in their lives. He didn't see his crew, which was a relief, for when they weren't there, they couldn't get in danger. On the other hand, however, wondered why they had abandoned him. Had he not been loyal to them for all these years? Had he not treated them as friends and loved ones? Or … had they maybe already been taken prisoner by Magnus?

He turned his head just in time to see Magnus extend a hand and fist it in Alistair's hair, shoving him closer to the gallows.

"People of Mossdeep!" he began, voice booming over the crowded place. "Today is the day that justice will be victorious. As you know me, you know that I do not condone piracy in the slightest. And here, today, we will see one of the most famous and feared pirates find his end." Magnus leaned close to him and smiled. "You will die as a traitor," he whispered in Alistair's ear. "Not only have you betrayed me, but also your friends and offspring, for I will find them. And then, I will slay every single one of them."

"No," Alistair pleaded. "No, don't!" But his voice didn't reach anybody's ear or heart, and nobody came to his rescue, for he was shoved to the noose and soon felt its bite around his neck.

Magnus said loudly: "The crimes committed by you, Alistair McNaughton, are innumerable. You have been accused of piracy, mutiny, treason, forgery, smuggling, arson in a naval dockyard, arson, sailing under false colours, blackmailing, kidnapping, horsetheft, burglary, impersonation of military commanders and officials, owling, poaching, fraud, false play and illegal gambling, perjury, pilfering, depravity and thievery, each of which is to be punished with death. Today, you will hereby justly be sentenced to death for them."

The last time Magnus had listed off Alistair's crimes, Alistair had laughed and cracked a joke. He didn't feel like joking now.

"It is my duty as chief magistrate," Magnus said loudly, fingers fisting once more into Alistair's hair, nails digging into his scalp, "to ask you to repent for your sins. Do you, Alistair of Mossdeep? Do you _repent_?" His teeth were clenched tightly enough for Alistair to hear them gnash, as Magnus so obviously tried to hide a smile.

"I only repent that you aren't hanging here next to me," Alistair spat with as much hatred as he could muster, as much hatred as he felt in every fiber of his being.

Though he did not feel anything at all for much longer. For merely a second later, there was nothing more than a short drop – and a sudden stop.

And with the thought of his family in his dying mind and the sight of the afternoon sun grazing the surface of the ocean, Alistair McNaughton – loyal companion, faithful husband and loving father – was no more.

* * *

Since that day, centuries had passed. Humanity had grown, technology had evolved, and the bond between mankind and Pokémon had only become tighter.

And fate had decided that the weight of the world – this one and many others alike – should lie on the shoulders of two men, two born leaders who were so much alike and yet so different in their upbringing, their beliefs and the way their hearts reached out to those alongside them.

* * *

Notes:

Chapter illustration by Meltingpenguins: post/122982120411/uncharted-territory-book-one-mare-incognitum  
Character Sheet of Molly by Meltingpenguins: post/124134134433/meltingpenguins-also-i-have-been-generally  
Fanart by bouncyenvos:  
1: post/123348695150  
2: post/124973066575


End file.
